He would flinch when someone tried to give him a high five (the program he was in advocated for positive reinforcement, including positive physical interactions), but he couldn't remember the reason he was afraid.

He would be filled with rage every time he saw a skinny blonde girl, but he didn't remember the drug addict mom that gave him that hatred. He didn't remember the dozens of other blonde girls that he had killed, all as a result of his warped childhood, an unholy combination of innate mental illness and abuse.

He still had the violence. The rage. The trauma. He just couldn't remember the source. He would wake up from nightmares sweating and afraid, but couldn't picture the face that was haunting his dreams.

He would be escorted from place to place, but he didn't mind. It was all he'd ever known. The only thing he couldn't understand was why so many were afraid of him, why so many people called him names.

He saw a therapist for his anger. The therapist would nod and hem and haw, but when the thirty minutes were up he was still angry and the therapist was fifty dollars richer.

Sometimes he'd explode and punch walls or break his knuckles against the metal paper towel dispenser in the bathroom. But he never hurt anyone.

When he was seven he saw his mother stab a man in a parking lot. The man was her dealer and demanded a higher price. She got pissed. She took his entire stash and blew through it in four days. The man was never shown on the news. It taught the young boy that murder was simply a part of life. It also taught him never to get between Momma and her drugs.

When he was twelve his mother flew into a psychotic rage and pushed him down the steps. He broke his ankle and couldn't move for two days. He laid there at the bottom of the steps and learned to shut off the pain. He still walks with a limp, but he no longer remembers why.

He had only ever known violence. So why was it surprising that he grew up to become violent? And yet, even without his memories, the feelings were still there. The fear. The anger. Now that he knew more than just violence, it was too late: his habits had already been learned, his childhood had already been lived and then forgotten. To truly fix him, they'd have to start from conception. Seize him from the womb and set him loose in a world that taught him love and compassion instead of vitriol and violence.

Erasing the memories wouldn't erase the experiences. They still happened, and he still feels its aftereffects. Only now, he has no rationale for the way that he feels. And no one can give him any answers.

One day, this lack of a reason will cause him to snap. He will kill again.

Until then, he will keep flinching every time someone tries to give him a high five. And he will keep wondering why he is so afraid.

The job of a poet.

Is to write

but not just to write

But to tell a story

but not just that

It is to fill your heart with emotions

and confuse your mind with dreams that can't possibly be real

and to drag the rhythm

of each line

in a slow dance

tempting you to take a bite

just like Eve did

The job is of a poet is not just to pull at your heart strings and play you a song

but to be the siren that pulls you under the waves

gasping for another line

another breath

until you don't know your right from your left,

who you are or where land is.

That is the job of a poet.

I wonder why my stomach growls,

Yet when I eat I get sick.

Only to realize it's been 24 hours since I've ate.

Shaking hands and a racing mind.

I wish I could be normal,

Just one time.

One day.

Let me eat a meal without the pain.

Without the conviction from my mind.

Telling me this is why I'm fat,

The only way to fix it is to stop eating.

But one can only go so long without food.

Why do I hate myself for being human?

You speak of being offended by toxic positivity as you sit there in your Carhartt beanie choking down a chai latte.

As if you knew the impact of a “you should smile more.” Or “it can’t be that bad, cheer up!”

when you’ve just had your lip split open by a baseball bat. You never had blood gushing from your brow on the wet pavement or the world reject you. You have never known the courage it takes to stand up and start again with nothing but your integrity.

The worst thing that has ever happened to you was not getting exactly what you wanted from a phone call to mommy.

So yeah, fuck you and your entire facade. Trying to coin sympathy from a phrase that you could never possibly understand.

Why do we always let others turn ourselves into the worse version of ourselves to fit their own prophecy ..

……you don’t have to give them scripture…

You don’t have to provide them verse ….

You don’t have to be evil … you can be good …

Don’t you belive …. You were always better than them ……. Who told you were not worthy … you would always be …. A criminal …

Building bars and sentences .. for yourself

Look at you stepping inside orange jumpsuits

It’s become fluid … like dance ….

It ain’t nothing to you anymore … sin …

Look at you , becoming worse and far from better …

I know that everything that glitters is not always gold … now

I miss you , Glinda good ….. i belive I could be good .. but I am better …. With my feet under houses …you don’t understand to defy gravity .. would to defy physics and fate … and maybe some of us were born villains to make heroes .

I miss you Glinda … I … do .. I could be good … if you defy us gravity .

Would you even love me , if we created something beautiful and it never saw the light . Would you hold my body or caste me aside , would we turn into blameless faceless and hands full of acusations and no room to bury grief …

Spend evenings laying on coffins and waiting for this to end .. you don’t have to stay anymore … you can run …. And I still hold the bellly and the body … You can deny your body was ever a home … I have no choice to still leave the shutters open and hold the windows and the heartbeat … the faint jolts of laughter …. There was someone here … in me .. standing in mirrors and turning to the side … place hand.. hides shame .. and regret .. I know it all …. Lost and found… I tell her it is not your fault .. I tell her she may try again … and I tell her she will be a a good mother ….

Because on the days when she is longing for baby feet , she will say it’s her fault in the middle of the night when he doesn’t hold her or stay …

When she finds herself craving … to become more than a woman … she must know she can try again …

When she looks at her hands at the doctors with good news … she will doubt .. if she will be good .. she will need to know she is still a mother if she loses it and she will be a good mother …

And when I sit next to her I ask in Spanish … if she would like a hug … I stop in the middle of speaking … and I get nervous I want it to be translated perfectly .. I know how much words mean … I ask him to ask if she consents to a hug … I hug … I speak my Spanish .. it’s broken … it’s grief …. And I become professional .. in the moments … that pull me way to deep into personal … I tell her te amo … becaUse she must know she is loved …

She is loved

She is loved

She is loved

She is still a mother

Even when her body cannot hold a host .

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I hate all the versions of me , I was a beggar

Two hands out looking for a sixpence of affection..

i hate all the versions of me that didn’t know better , but should of had known better

I hate all the versions that ever told a man she needed them … as if she didn’t learn how to walk on water … as if she doesn’t have a god , as if she is not a god or scripture .

as if she is not an ancestor … as if shes not holding wisdom in her veins … like lines crossed around her hand ..

for-telling furture

as if body cannot create life and take it back and rebuke … it’s conjuring .

i hate all the versions of me , that become a damaging ecosystem to those who tried to grow inside me

I hate all the versions of me that learned to be breathe in carbon dioxide . That when it got time to breathe in oxygen I didn’t know how to come up for air .

i hate all the versions of me that didn’t recognize I am crown and Nubian . for everytime I held a mirror againist shadows and hated my relfection .

I hate all the versions of me , that insecurity clingers for me like a cloak , a stain , I couldn’t wash .. do You know not your worth ?

i detest the growth process . … but I have adored it’s healing … for girlhood is the constant ripping of thighs and bleeding , becoming male fantasy .. and becoming standard beauty , fidgeting with scale and worth .. womanhood is bleeding and knowing body ,

love comes in the shape of a woman .. is taking lessons and not letting the damage be lineage …

i will not leave behind a body that Carries stories of women who did not ever learn their lesson …

The mist shrouded the mountain like a snake that is about to squeeze its prey

At this place, far away from human civilization, I found my nirvana—

fresh air, fresh view, and fresh climb

Trees stretched their fingers towards the azure sky while bees and flies

circled around their trunks, always searching for something,

maybe blossoms that never grew on the branches

I too, am searching for something...

Peace and serenity

Darting around in circles, the swallows performed gymnastics as they rushed upwards, plunged down in neat swoops, and then spiraled into the air

Grey-headed bullfinches sat unperturbedly on flowering bushes and fruit-laden trees

as rain lightly licked their feathers

A bird hopped on its feet and looked at me with curious, black eyes

I stood there, unmoving

A straw-thatched house perched on a grassy slope, its door ajar as if inviting me in From the west, a puff of wind lightly tingled the straw on the roof and dipped its fingers in the sluggish river below

Sheltered by lush plants and friendly animals, I even forgot that this was a tourist site—it was a comfortable home for me

However, my reverie was broken when my mother

and some crazy monkeys stepped in my way

“Smile!” my mother yelled to me as she snapped a picture

of me gaping at the mountain

“Oh mom, you broke the silence!” I complained

“We’re going down the mountain anyway,” she replied

As I descended, I took one last look at the startling Giotto-blue sky

and the swallows that dotted it

But before my we reached the bottom, several monkeys blocked the way

One monkey grabbed my leg and hugged it as if it were a precious piece of banana

Another monkey approached and reached for my floral scarf

I was aware that Mom was probably saving this memory inside her camera

As I detangled out of the monkeys’ reaches, I realized that

I was actually enjoying their presence—

that was until one jumped on my back and tried to rip my hair out

And I also realized that my water bottle in my backpack was gone

As I veered off into the craziness that represents my world,

I stole a moment to just breathe,

took in the magnificent view,

and found peace to take with me

But even with the flowers, trees, and other parts of nature

that I feverishly love so much,

from the safe haven of my backyard to the green spaces of the park,

I felt at peace on this mountain

I rested on the rocky slope overlooking the mountain,

able to gaze out much farther and stand much taller than I typically can

I enjoyed the rough climb upwards because at the apex

I could survey what looked like the whole world

On that mountain, I realized that what captured my heart about the climb is that once I reached my destination, I became part of Nature—

I was in the clouds,

the river flowing below,

the ghostly mist,

the twittering birds,

and the playful monkeys

Prologue

Blood is much darker than you think it is. When you see it in the movies, all gory and pouring from some poor heroine’s mangled body, it’s almost crimson; a crafty mix of food dye and corn syrup to add some viscosity. I’ve just realised though, that blood is actually much closer to a burgundy. It looks even darker when it frames platinum blonde hair, like it’s doing right now. My sister is so precious about her hair, she spends enough fucking money on it. If she were watching this scene right now, she’d be freaking out about the sticky liquid melding with her imperiously styled hair.

It’s just then that a thought pops into my head: now is probably the first time in weeks that I wouldn’t have to stand outside the bathroom door banging on the hard wood, screaming at Avery to get the fuck out of the goddamn shower before there’s no hot water left for anybody else. I start to giggle then, these horrific, strangled chuckles that well up through my chest and escape out of my cracked mouth. It’s not long before I am bent over at the waist, my hands grasping at my thighs while the laughter rocks up my spine. The fucking shower is finally free, I think, and keep laughing.

I’m not sure exactly when my knees give out, but that’s exactly how they find me, how they find us, an hour later. I am on my knees, arms wrapped around my waist because I swear to God if I let go then the pieces of me would just come apart, and the blood that is coming, still fucking coming, from my sister’s slit wrists has almost reached me and I will have to wash this shirt. That’s how they find us, the twins, always together even now, one giggling feebly and the other one dead.

3 Months later

I swear this fucking bus is only ever late when it’s pissing rain. Fuck. The annoying thing is that I know Mum is only inside the house, 30 feet away if even, well-capable of driving me to school. It’s not like she’ll be doing anything else today, for Christ’s Sakes, other than sitting around watching Jeremy Fucking Kyle from the couch in that awful grey dressing gown that she hasn’t washed since it happened. Jeremy won’t tell you what to do when your kid offs herself, Mum, I want to scream at her.

‘Nothing’ is the answer, in case you were wondering - you do nothing.

I pull a packet of 100s from the pocket of my school trousers and slip one into my hand, trying my best to shield it from the rain. I feel around for my lighter in the same pocket, the green one that I found under Avery’s loose floorboard beside the half ounce of weed. It’s funny; even after 18 years of being a twin, she still thought she could hide things from me. I suppose she could.

It takes around 3 seconds before the cigarette hisses in my hand, dampened by the incessant rain. I groan in frustration and flick it to the side, more evidence for my parents to attack me with later. I’m digging around in my bag for my earphones when the bus eventually pulls up, my ass up in the air for everyone to see. I grin as I hear someone wolf whistle and give a little shimmy, secretly hoping to God that my belt keeps doing its job. These trousers have started to hang off me a little around the hips and right now would most definitely be an inopportune time for a wardrobe malfunction.

I straighten up, still with a slight grin twisting my lips and turn around to see Jones sticking his head out of the bus window, fingers still at the edges of his mouth ready to whistle again. I shake my head and blush slightly as I see heads turning my way; I can feel the old tug from before, the one that kept me out of the spotlight, the one that kept me from drawing any unnecessary attention to myself. I brush it off and toss my head back as I let a hint of swagger sway through my sauntering hips.

I am not who I was before.

A few pairs of eyes still stick to me while I make my way towards Jones, and I meet them gladly, even sparing a second glance for that boy who’s in my Bio class, I think. A drop of rain falls from my hair and lands squarely on the bridge of my nose; I squint my eyes to watch it travel down the smooth slope ahead, and I am mesmerised for a split second before it dismounts. I look away when it hits the grey of my school trousers. I’ve only recently started to notice the way water seems to pool in the unruly curls of my hair. Truth is, I’ve never let it grow this long before. I didn’t know that my hair would form these spirals on my head, or that it could look copper in the sunlight. I didn’t know I wanted to see it like this, untamed and sort of beautiful.

I roll my eyes to myself. Beautiful. Catch yourself on, you narcissistic prick, I think, and then realise that I’ve thought it in Avery’s voice.

She had an enthralling voice, my sister. It sort of drew you in, the way she softly drawled your name, as if it was a sacred spell she was reciting. I’d seen her in action before, trying to convince someone into giving her what she wanted – a kiss, a favour, a secret or anything else of that vein – and it was like watching a type of hypnosis; the victim, usually some poor prick looking to get with her, would find themselves leaning closer and closer, just trying to soak up more of the honey that seemed to pour from her lips.

It used to make me laugh when we were younger. I could see exactly what she was doing to other people; I thought it was funny to watch my sister manipulate people, to see if she couldn’t get us a bigger allowance or a later lift home. She’d wink at me when the job was done, and I would always get to revel in the glory of whatever prize she’d beguiled for us. It was a twin thing: if she got it, I got it. She got things for both of us.

I guess it stopped being fun sometime along the way. Maybe it was when she started using that voice on me.

I drop myself into my usual seat on the bus and flash a grin at my friends. The seat beside me at the window is empty; truth is, I used to sit there staring out the window while Avery held court with everyone who couldn’t resist her. Now, the seat beside me is vacant like it has been since it happened, and I sit where she used to, probably tossing my newly grown hair around like she always did with hers. I join in on whatever the guys have been talking about before, blinking and laughing to keep the attention away from the way my index fingernail scrapes along the inside of my thumb – the one habit from my old life that I can’t quite kick. Still nervous to speak out as loud as the others, so used to being interrupted; but my friends turn their heads to listen when I talk now, just like they used to do with her.

T

he bus journey is short, like it always is, and we get to school before the conversation is finished. Where I used to walk three feet behind whoever Avery was entertaining on any given day on the way through the front doors, I lead the way now; the guys follow, still discussing last night’s match enthusiastically and everyone else moves out of the way. I silently give myself a kick and an internal whisper of “don’t be so fucking up yourself” before striding through the main hall on the way to my locker. My fingertips move to clutch the tips of the sleeves of my school jumper – another habit I can’t quite kick – as I try to ignore the looks; it’s difficult to know whether they’re the ‘oh no, the poor lad with the dead sister’ looks, or the ‘I wonder if he has a date to the Debs yet’ looks. Either way, I’m still not used to all the attention. When I stop at my locker, and I take a quiet breath and unlock my fingers from my sleeves, pushing them up to show my forearms. Another quiet breath and I pick out my books from my locker and load them into my bag, consciously avoiding the fumbling and deep blush that used to accompany this task every single day. Luckily, it was never an issue - nobody ever looked away from her long enough to notice that I’d turned beetroot and was trying desperately not to drop anything while stuffing my maths book into my bag.

The morning passed too easily, too quickly, like it always did on a Thursday – guidance counselling day. Every Thursday at 12, when everyone else was falling asleep in Ethics class, I was in the hot, stuffy office with Ms. Lane, trying desperately not to slip-up and tell her all the ways my life has improved since my twin sister killed herself.

I’ve gotten really good at it, playing the grieving sibling. I know all the right places to sigh and let my eyes well up just the tiniest bit, the right times to avoid eye contact and let my throat get a little bit constricted so that my words come out tighter. I know to how to fidget to make her think I’m anxious about spilling my guts, and how to smile a brave smile that convinces her I’m okay and moving well through my supposed grief. I spend a half an hour explaining how much I miss her, and pulling out some made up memory about Avery from when we were kids, and then I’m free again and she doesn’t suspect a thing.

Truth is, most of my memories of Avery don’t really have me in them. You know when you’re remembering something and you can kind of see it in the third person, like you’re watching the memory from the outside? And that never really makes sense, because obviously you were there, and you should be watching it back through your own eyes. For me though, I really was on the outside of everything she did, everything we did. I was always a tag along, there because you had to include the twin brother, there because I was destined to stand three feet behind Avery for our entire lives.

Outside of Ms Lane’s office, I stop for a second and let the feeling of lying wash over me. It’s almost enjoyable, seeing how good I am at this; seeing how enthralled she is in me and my sweet vulnerability, how willing she is to buy into my stories and bared heart, seeing how her eyes melt at when I’m near my easily produced tears. For one tiny second, I think I see Avery down the end of the hall, peeking around the corner. I even go to take a step towards her before I come back to reality; to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I would have taken the step even if she was really there.

I straighten up and stride back to catch the end of Ethics class; one benefit of the mandatory dead-twin counselling is that it gets me out of the bulk of these god awful classes of debating the ideals of faith, Religion class in disguise. Before I reach toward the handle of the classroom door, I run a hand through my hair and pull my shoulders back. You wouldn’t have known I was tall before, and even a bit broad at my shoulders. It took me weeks and weeks to learn to straighten up; that it was okay for people to look in my direction sometimes, and okay to not always have my head tucked into my collar. It took more weeks after that to get used to the looks, and even more to start enjoying some of them.

After Ethics is lunch, which always passes to quickly now; I can’t believe I used to think it was long and torturous. I head up to the counter and buy a cereal bar to stave off any weird looks for not eating, and take my usual seat in the middle of everyone, tipping back a bit again the wall. We seemed to have moved on from the soccer to discussing someone’s 18th this Friday night; Colin volunteers his shed for pre drinks, and the lads turn their eyes to me to see if I approve. I nod gratefully and say sound, thanks Colin and that appeases them enough to look away and start planning in more detail. I didn’t used to get a real invite to pre drinks, let alone be the one who decided if the sacrificed house would be good enough; it was just assumed that I would come with Avery, and I did. The girls start to discuss what to wear, making the guys turn back to their earlier soccer analysis, and I get away with slipping my cereal bar into my pocket.

The bell makes me jump slightly when it rings, fucking hell can you please not do that in front of everyone, and we trudge off to our lockers moaning about the afternoon run of classes. Turns out the Leaving Cert simply doesn’t disappear when your sister dies and your family falls apart – thank fuck, because as stupid as it is, I need the thing to get into college and out of that house. Avery had always wanted us to go to Trinity together, her to do Law and me to do something else. That was always the plan, and I was almost surprised when I realised I really don’t want to fucking do that. So much so that I have mentally banned the word ‘Trinity’ from my CAO form, along with any other Dublin-based colleges. My options are currently all variations of biochemistry across Limerick and Galway and Cork, with some less fancy science courses lower down to fill the form out. I’m not worried about those honestly; maybe it makes me sound like a bit of a dick, but there’s really no doubt that I’ll be going to do Biochemistry in NUIG – school was always easy, and now it’s even easier, especially with an idea of moving to another county to do something it turns out I’m really, really interested in. This is all going through my mind in Biology while everyone else has their heads stuck in exam papers that I did last night.

School mostly passes like that now, easily and full of my friends pulling me into conversations and asking my opinion like it really matters, lying through my teeth to Ms Lane, and feeling pretty okay until I hop off the bus. Maybe that sounds like a usual day in 6th year, plus a little exam anxiety, but I’m still getting used to the routine. Before, it wasn’t uncommon if I didn’t speak a word to anyone except Avery for a whole day. People used to address her to speak to both of us, and she would answer for both of us always. It didn’t matter I suppose, because I guess I thought that she thought. Or she told me I did. I had a built-in best friend who could read my mind, and no real need to speak out loud, or speak to anyone else. My sister made our friends for us, and I liked them; they liked Avery, and I was part of Avery.

It took a while after she died for our friends to get used to speaking to me instead. Obviously, there was the mandatory period of tiptoeing around the guy with the dead twin, and I got that; I didn’t want anyone to be uncomfortable around me, or have to try to think of stuff to say that wasn’t I’m sorry, are you okay? But a couple of weeks after, when they were planning to go out for a few drinks after the half day on a Friday, I said I’d come along without being asked; and after that, they always asked. They asked me first, asked me instead of others, asked me like they really cared if I said yes. That had never happened before.

It’s pretty nice, to be honest. Don’t be a prick.

My foot hits the wet path when I get off the bus and I’m brought back to reality. I walk up towards the door, trying to pull my keys out of my bag at the same time and not doing a great job of it. The closer I get to the house, my shoulders start to hunch over and I pat my hair down, pull my sleeves down around my fingers. It takes me two tries to get the key in the door when my hands are shaking and fumbly, so I know she hears me coming before I walk through the door. It doesn’t tempt her to move though; she’s sat in the same place she way this morning when I left, pulling the rope of her dressing gown through her fingers. Her head turns towards me and I know all she sees is Avery, our faces carbon copies, our uniforms the same. She always walked through the front door first after school and I know Mum is still expecting her when she first looks up. She sees Avery and then she sees me and her eyes glaze over, and I just walk right upstairs.